Ferdinand, by this time, had fallen, though whether from the stab wound to his leg or as a reaction to his captain’s intervention, Huerta knew not. What he did know was that Ferdinand had to die, and as the other man tried to push himself up from the ground, Huerta ran him through with his sword, twice in quick succession, both times through the chest. The soldier collapsed backward, lifeless, but even though he was dead, Huerta continued to chop at the body, hacking off hands and feet, arms and legs, until what was left of Ferdinand was little more than a bloody stump surrounded by chunks of chopped flesh.
Finally, Huerta stopped, breathing hard and wiping his face, though his hand was bloodier than his cheeks and only smeared the wetness around. The other soldiers were staring at him in shock. Shock but not disapproval. They seemed surprised by what he had done, but not judgmental, and though they had watched him slaughter their compadres, though he himself knew that he had gone too far, that what he had done was not only wrong and sinful but utterly mad, their faces retained the same placidity they had worn while watching the two soldiers duel.
He let the sword fall from his hand, then dropped to his knees in supplication, putting his hands together in prayer. He was damned and he knew he was damned, but that did not stop him from tearfully begging the Lord for forgiveness.
His men stood there, staring.
From far away, from the camp where the others had returned, Huerta heard a familiar sound, carried easily on the soft night breeze.
The sound of horses screaming.
He looked up, eyes stinging. The stars could not be seen from here. Above, there was only blackness.
The savages were right. Men should not live in this place, he thought.
Ever.
* * *
1777
No church had been built, even after all this time, and Father Juarez grew angry as his horse entered the village. He had consecrated the site five years ago, founding the church on a spot where its stained-glass windows would hold and transfer the light of the sun into the glowing colors of God’s glory. He had done so with the understanding that the men left behind would induce local natives to construct the physical building in his absence. Such a strategy had led to the completion of three of the other four churches he had founded. The fourth, located in an inhospitable plain far from convenient resources, was nearly finished.
Yet here his church had not even a foundation, and the men he had assigned to this post were still living in tents and crude temporary buildings amid the primitive homes of the natives.
His horse, and the other horses, carts and pack animals of his party, trudged through the deep, sucking mud that served as a street. News of their arrival traveled fast, and before they reached the makeshift structure that was to serve as their barracks, a semiformal welcoming committee had assembled. From atop his horse, Father Juarez scanned the faces of those who waited to greet him. “Where is Brother Francisco?” he asked.
The men looked at one another, averting their gazes from his, and none of them answered his question.
“Where is Brother Francisco?” he repeated.
Jacinto Paredes stepped forward. He was the leader of the soldiers left behind to assist the friars in their mission. “Brother Francisco is gone,” he said.
Father Juarez frowned. “What do you mean, he is gone?”
“Five days ago, we awoke to find that Brother Francisco was not in his quarters. We thought at first that he had gone for a walk, to meditate before prayers. He had done so before on several occasions, though not without telling someone of his intentions. But he did not return for the midday meal, and he still had not returned by nightfall. We called for him and conducted a search of the land about the village, but he was nowhere to be found. In the morning, I myself led a party into the surrounding wilderness, and there have never been less than two men out since, but we have not been able to locate either Brother Francisco or his body.” The soldier made a gesture of confused helplessness. “He is gone.”
Father Juarez dismounted, the rest of his party following suit. “This is unacceptable.”
“I apologize, Your Holiness.”
“You are assuming that Brother Francisco left of his own accord, wandering into the wilderness and disappearing. Have you not considered the possibility that he was taken by one of these savages and killed as part of some beastly ritual?”
“We assume nothing, Your Holiness. But we know these people. They are extremely peaceful and docile. The friars have succeeded in converting nearly all of them to Christianity. And there are none unaccounted for, none who would have had the opportunity to carry out such an abduction. It appears far more likely that Brother Francisco became lost on a trek and could not find his way back, was injured and unable to return, or was harmed by a wild animal.”
There was an awkward pause, and once again the men who had lined up to greet him looked away, unable to meet Father Juarez’s gaze.
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “There is something you are not telling me.”
“Forgive me, Your Holiness, but the truth is that Brother Francisco has not been of sound mind. He has claimed to have visions of spirits and demons, and asserts that the ground you have consecrated is evil and unclean. He has fallen prey to local superstitions and has grown afraid of this place. He has refused for weeks to perform even the most basic of his duties, and, in truth, none of us were surprised to find him gone. And, yes, I believe the most likely reason is that Brother Francisco has fled.”
“Is this why my church has not been built? Is this why it has not even been started?” The anger came out now, and Father Juarez lashed out at the men he had left behind in this village, excoriating them for not carrying out the will of God, for forsaking His church and their Christian duty, for indulging in the sin of sloth. He wished Brother Francisco were here so he could upbraid the friar to his face, but he unleashed a verbal attack on the man before going on to denounce those who had not had the fortitude to stand up to such blatant defiance of Church and country.
“You appointed Brother Francisco and gave him authority over all of us,” Jacinto Paredes reminded him gently. “It was not our place to question his decisions.”
Father Juarez stared at the man, fuming. Such insubordination would not have been tolerated in the civilized world, but here in the wild, apparently all decency and respect had been forgotten. Despite his anger, however, he recognized the truth of the soldier’s words. It had been Brother Francisco’s duty to see that the church was built; it was his fault that it had not been, and Father Juarez stated to all who had gathered that if Brother Francisco was captured—and captured was the word he used—he would not only be stripped of all authority but punished severely for failing to follow orders.
When he had finished, another man stepped forward, Brother Rodrigo, the friar appointed to succeed Brother Francisco in the event of death or incapacitation. “It is not all the fault of Brother Francisco,” the friar said. “Even before he began succumbing to these delusions, he was unable to convince the natives to work on the church, though most of them had been converted. They were frightened of this ground, and I fear he may have surrendered to their superstitions.”